


Head Above Water

by mdr_24601



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: 70th Hunger Games, Annie Cresta-centric, District 4 (Hunger Games), F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Musician Annie Cresta, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27924949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mdr_24601/pseuds/mdr_24601
Summary: Annie navigates her first year as a victor. It’s easier and harder than she ever imagined.
Relationships: Annie Cresta & Finnick Odair, Annie Cresta & Mags & Finnick Odair, Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Head Above Water

When they pull her out of the arena, she’s freezing. 

And not in the hyperbolic sense. No, Annie’s literally freezing, in the deep, bone chilling way. The way that makes her muscles shake with tension in a futile effort to keep her warm, the way that causes her teeth to chatter like they’re rattling in her skull. She’s still sopping wet, her dark hair plastered onto her face, a mixture of water and blood soaking into every crevice of her body. 

It’s chilling, and not just literally. 

The last few hours (days?) in the arena are blurry, faded memories. She barely remembers what actual events transpired after the flood swallowed everything in sight. But if there’s one thing she’ll never forget, it’s the cold that settles into her bones and clings to her, not letting go. 

Annie doesn’t feel entirely present for a long time after. They put her in a hospital bed, wrapped her in blankets, doctors murmuring something about hypothermia. Still, though, Annie doesn’t feel like she’s in the hospital at all. Or, at least, not entirely. 

Is it possible to be in two places at once? She’s certain it must be, because how else could she be in the hospital and in the arena at the same time? It’s like they pulled her out, but not all the way. The hovercraft must have made a mistake, they didn’t pick up all the pieces of her shattered self. 

Maybe they didn’t know to look, in which case, Annie can’t really blame them. Still, there are pieces of her still in that arena. Pieces that will remain there forever, never to be seen again. She shudders. It’s like a ghost story, one that the kids in her district would stay up late to tell. 

_The girl shattered in there, but I heard there are still pieces left, if you know where to look…_

“Annie?”

A voice shakes her from her thoughts. Not just any voice, she realizes upon further inspection. She knows this one. Finnick Odair, her mentor (friend?) sits on her hospital bed, a worried crease between his brows. Vaguely, she wonders what he might have to be worried about. 

He stares at her expectantly for a few moments, as if waiting for her to say something. She doesn’t, so he says, “You did it. You’re safe now.”

“Are you going to congratulate me?” she asks. Annie’s not expecting her voice to feel so hoarse, or the torn feeling in her throat. “That’s what everybody else has been doing.”

Finnick shrugs. “Do you feel like you should be congratulated?”

It’s a simple answer, really. “No.”

“Well then,” he says, “No congratulations are in order.”

For some reason, this makes her feel marginally better. She’s not sure what it is about Finnick’s presence that makes her hands stop shaking, but for whatever reason, they do. She tries not to dwell on it. 

“What’s going on?” she asks, because time has meant nothing for however long she’s been in the hospital, and she hardly knows what goes on around her anymore. Finnick sighs, looks down, then looks at her again. 

“Actually, we need to talk a bit about your interview.” He says it guiltily, like it’s his fault she will have to stand on a stage in front of the entire nation and relive the worst moments of her life. “The president wants you to be ready soon. He asked me to talk to you.”

“Oh.” She’s not sure what there is to say on the subject. “I don’t want to.”

He nods and takes her hand hesitantly. His hand is warm, and she nearly recoils, but doesn’t. “I know. But I promise, it’s just this last thing, then you can go home. Caesar will just ask you a few questions, then you’ll have to review the arena tape. You can close your eyes the whole time, if you want. Scream, cry, whatever.”

“I thought this was supposed to be happy,” Annie says, eyeing him curiously. He makes eye contact with her, and something clicks. Of course, she knows exactly what he is telling her to do. It’s not the worst of ideas, but she’s quite certain it’s not allowed. “Won’t I get in trouble?”

“No,” Finnick assures her. “I won’t let that happen. Just go on the stage and don’t be afraid to let it out.”

“Okay,” she replies. “When is it?”

He grimaces, guilty again. “Today.”

Annie stumbles through the interview portion, stuttering over her words. Caesar tries to help her, and it doesn’t go so bad. She clenches her eyes shut tightly throughout the tape. Her dress is thin and strapless and does nothing to protect her from the wave of cold that washes over her. 

She doesn’t see it, but when she hears the axe slice through her District partner’s neck, she screams. Annie screams her throat raw until security has to plunge a needle into her arm, and then she quiets. 

* * *

Finnick is right, though. After her disastrous interview, the Capitol is quick to push her away. They’re not so interested in her anymore, being as mad as she is. Mad; it’s a label that the doctors had slung around thoughtlessly at the hospital. Before, she never would have used it to describe herself. It’s crude and insensitive, she thinks, but it’s what they call her. She takes it, because what else is there to do?

Although, if it keeps her away from the Capitol, she supposes it’s a good thing. 

Annie sits with Finnick on the train ride home. He looks tired, more worn than when she’d last seen him. “What’s wrong?” she asks, and he looks up at her distractedly. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, pasting on a fake smile. She knows he’s lying. Something’s always wrong. “We’ll be home soon.”

The train speeds by the country, and she presses her hand to the glass on the window. It’s warm to the touch, probably heated by the sun, and she can’t help but smile a little bit. Her parents will be waiting for her at the station, she knows. The urge to run into her mother’s arms and sob is stronger than ever. 

Eventually, the train pulls up to the station, and Annie follows Finnick out. The sun is warm on her face and shoulders. Her eyes scan the crowd for her parents, and she can feel her chest heave as she comes up empty. 

“It’s okay,” Finnick whispers into her ear. Mags is on her other side, and brushes her hand against Annie’s shoulder, echoing the same sentiment. 

But it’s not okay, because nothing is ever okay, and shouldn’t they know that by now? Her parents aren’t there, and she doesn’t know where they are, so she’s not shy about voicing these concerns. “Where are they? Where are my parents?”

“Annie—”

Finnick tries to say something but she pays him no attention. Instead, she pushes past the crowd and runs. She runs until her lungs burn from exertion, until her legs threaten to collapse beneath her. Annie can hear Finnick’s feet pounding behind her, but she doesn’t stop. 

Not until she reaches her house, whose remains sit, smoking. The house is completely and irrevocably damaged, charred and ruined. Any life inside of it has been extinguished. Annie knows this; she’s an expert on death by now. 

Something splinters in her mind with the realization that she will never see her parents again. They’re dead, dead, dead, in that house that caught on fire. Annie screams. 

Finnick wraps his arms around her at some point, acting as a human shield. He holds her as she cries into his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says, again and again. 

She cries herself empty, eventually. “Why?” she asks hollowly. “This wasn’t an accident, why did it happen, Finnick?”

He looks at her, pained, then looks away. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I should’ve handled this differently. This isn’t your fault, okay? It’s not your fault.”

She’s paying for something, she knows. Maybe Annie wasn’t supposed to win, and now the Capitol is angry. Maybe her madness provoked them somehow. “I’m tired,” she declares, because she can already feel the weariness settling onto her shoulders. 

“I know. I know a back route that will keep the press away. Mags is waiting for you at your new house.”

Annie says nothing as she lets Finnick lead her to her new house in Victors’ Village. She’s too drained to make any sort of protest, so she forces her feet to shuffle along the path until they get to the door. Mags is waiting on the porch, alone, much to her relief. Mags and Finnick exchange a few words that Annie doesn’t catch, then the older woman takes her gently by the arm and leads her to a bedroom. 

“Just go to sleep,” Mags says, pulling up the covers. “We can talk in the morning.”

So she does. Or, tries to. Annie’s not sure how long she’s asleep for before the nightmares invade any tranquility. She just knows that when she wakes up, trembling in her sweat-soaked sheets, her throat is sore from the familiar effort of screaming.

* * *

The following weeks, and months, are a mixture of good days and bad days. A mismatched collection of moments of all kinds; happy ones, sad ones, panicked ones, sluggish ones. Sometimes, Annie doesn’t leave her bed, and Mags takes care of her as though she’s fallen ill. Sometimes, when she does leave her bed, Finnick comes over, lighting up the room. 

Today, four months out of the arena, is not a good day or a bad day, just somewhere in the middle. Annie knows this as soon as she wakes up, because she’s gotten better at telling. She makes her way downstairs to her expansive, empty kitchen. Officially, she lives alone, but Finnick or Mags are with her more often than not. 

This morning, it’s Finnick. He swings the door open with a cheerful smile and a basket dangling from his arm. “I brought breakfast,” he announces. 

Annie glances at the assortment of baked goods and says, “I hope you didn’t make these.”

He laughs and sets them down. “No, they’re from the bakery. Do you not trust my cooking?”

“The last time you made cookies you added an inhuman amount of sugar,” she points out with a small smile. “And proceeded to actually eat them, instead of making a new batch like a normal person.”

“I added the right amount of sugar,” Finnick corrects. “What, are you an expert on baking now?”

She laughs, because although she’s been doing some baking since the arena, she’d hardly consider herself an expert. “Better than you.”

“Oh, now you’re just being mean,” he retorts in mock indignation. “If I knew I was going to be insulted, I wouldn’t have brought these over.”

Annie grins at him, and he smiles back, lighting up his eyes in the way she doesn’t see on television. Finnick, as a whole, is different in Four than he is in the Capitol. It’s the way he holds himself, the way he talks, the way he laughs. It’s so subtle, but it makes all the difference. Her thoughts turn to her upcoming Victory Tour, and she frowns. 

“What are you thinking about?” Finnick asks. 

“The Tour,” she says. No other words are needed, as Finnick nods in understanding. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dampen the mood.”

“No, no, don’t worry about it. You’re allowed to talk about it. Have you thought about what you want your talent to be yet?”

“No,” she sighs. “It’s hard to think of anything that I can and want to do.”

“Oh, it doesn’t have to be a real talent,” he says nonchalantly. “Most of us just make ours up.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Really? What was yours?”

“Modeling,” he answers with a slight frown. “Yeah, I didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter. But you have the choice of any talent you want. Is there anything you like to do?”

She shrugs mindlessly. The idea of finding a talent has been tainted by the Capitol, in a way. It reminds her of her upcoming Victory Tour, and brings back memories of the arena that she’d rather not dwell on. 

In some ways, she feels like a fish at an aquarium, being looked at through a piece of glass as people stick their hands to the glass, mimicking touch but not quite achieving it. 

“How about music?” Finnick asks after a moment. Annie considers this, deep in thought. 

“Okay,” she says eventually. 

She settles on piano, because it looks easy enough, and makes her foyer look less empty. Annie doesn’t expect to play it very often, if at all. 

Over the next few months, though, she does play it. More often than she ever thought she would. Her music can often be heard floating throughout the house, especially after she’s had a nightmare. 

It doesn’t fix things, and it doesn’t cure her madness. But it does something to make life a little less unbearable, and Annie’s grateful for that, at least. 

* * *

Her Victory Tour arrives with such haste that Annie can hardly comprehend that it’s already here. It isn’t just about the Tour, but what it symbolizes. It means six months out of the arena, six months with Finnick and Mags, six months since she established herself as the mad girl on live television. 

Her hands shake as she boards the train. It’s the same one used for the Games. The meaning is not lost on any of them, except maybe the Capitol citizens. Annie wonders if they do this on purpose, to make the Victory Tour as grueling as possible. It’s a glaring reminder that she hasn’t escaped the Capitol, even if the Capitol wants to escape her. 

She mechanically reads pre-prepared speeches off of note cards that her escort prepares for her. She talks about her piano a little as Finnick shows the Capitol cameramen around her house. Finnick does most of the talking at the dinners, much to her relief. 

Annie can feel herself regressing as they get closer to the Capitol, and Finnick and Mags can see it, too. They don’t say anything, but they help her in little ways, like giving her hand a gentle squeeze to ground her to reality. 

“I heard it’s going to be the party of the year,” her escort trills happily to one of the stylists. She is, of course, referring to the Victory Party at the Capitol, which Annie will be attending as this year’s victor. 

“It’ll be fine,” Finnick says, sensing her apprehension. Finnick has become something of an anchor in her life, a steady and reliable presence. “I’ll try to stay near you the whole time and answer their questions. They’ll probably be invasive.”

“Oh, good,” she replies with a dry laugh.

“Don’t worry,” Finnick says. Then, jokingly, “I’ll punch them if they come anywhere near you, how’s that sound?”

Mags gives him a gentle whack on the arm and shakes her head. 

Annie manages a small laugh at this. The image of Capitol people getting punched by Finnick is so absurd that she can’t help but smile.

Her stylist puts her in a silky blue dress for the party. The bodice hugs her chest and the skirt flares out around her knees, and privately, Annie thinks it’s gorgeous. It makes her feel like the human embodiment of the sea. She would be happy to wear it if not for the occasion. 

Her hand grips Finnick’s as they enter. He doesn’t pull away as her hand starts to sweat, just gives it a reassuring squeeze. Finnick puts on his Capitol mask and talks to some people. Annie smiles silently and tries not to flinch as they brush her shoulders. 

“You look lovely tonight, Miss Cresta.”

Her breath catches in her throat. From beside her, Finnick’s smile freezes on his face. His jaw clenches a little, a clear sign of worry. President Snow stares at her expectantly, waiting for her to respond. 

“Thank you,” she replies after an uncomfortably long pause.

“Are you enjoying the party?” he asks casually. 

“Yes,” Annie lies. “It’s nice.”

The president nods, contemplative, then turns to Finnick. “Mr. Odair. I’m aware that you have been very invested in your mentoring duties as of late, but would you be so kind as to allow Miss Cresta and I a few minutes alone?”

Finnick’s eyes harden as he turns to her. Annie can tell he’d rather do anything else than leave her alone with Snow, but not even Finnick Odair can get her out of this one. “Of course,” he says stiffly, before slipping away into the crowd. 

Her chest tightens with worry as she watches Finnick leave, and she wipes her sweaty palms on her skirt. 

“Now, Miss Cresta,” Snow begins, sipping a drink tastefully. “You are quite lucky to have the mentor that you do. Finnick seems to be very invested in your well-being.”

“Yes,” Annie agrees awkwardly. “He’s been very kind.” Briefly, she wonders if Snow can see the flicker of panic that crosses her face. 

“That’s good to hear. However, it would be quite unfortunate if Finnick were to become too invested and neglect his duties here in the Capitol. He’s vouched for you quite strongly, Miss Cresta.”

She only nods at this, unsure how to proceed. 

“You seem to be doing better since the last time we saw you,” Snow continues. “Perhaps you’ve recovered enough to join Mr. Odair in the Capitol.”

Annie’s blood runs cold. She doesn’t know what he’s talking about, not the specifics, but the thought of spending any more time in the Capitol than strictly necessary is enough to make bile rise in her throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “No, you wouldn’t. Not to worry. Finnick has ensured that you can remain safe at home while your mind recovers. Just remember that if I get word that you are distracting Finnick from his responsibilities, I will take that as a sign that you are recovered.”

She nods, dazed. The president’s words don’t seem to be fully settling in her brain. Still, throat dry, she says, “I understand.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your night, Miss Cresta.”

With that, he steps away. Finnick is by her side in just moments. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly. “Here, let’s go get some fresh air.”

She lets him lead her to a balcony outside. The cold wind whips at her face, blowing her hair out of its styled curls. “I’m fine,” she says a moment later. “He talked to me about the party.”

“The party?” Finnick echoes, confused. 

“Yeah,” Annie says, sitting down against the wall. “But can we stay out here for a little while?”

“Of course,” Finnick says, sitting down beside her. She rests her tired head on his shoulder. “We’ll stay here as long as you need.”

* * *

Annie returns home to Four considerably less stable than when she left it. The Victory Tour had taken a toll on all of them. Being in the Capitol again, and discussing her Games, brought forward some unwelcome images of blood on her hands and screams in her ears.

Finnick and Mags do their best to help and support her, and she’s grateful for them. Having somebody who understands is vital to her recovery, according to the doctors. 

To Annie, though, having somebody who she likes and who likes her is equally as important. 

She’s not sure what’s going on with her and Finnick these days. The way they’re attached at the hip all the time is confusing but not unwelcome. He stays with her nearly all day, and comes to her house when she has a nightmare, and listens to her play piano. They talk and they laugh and he lets her cry on his shoulder. It’s good. 

Still, though, the president’s warning echoes in her head. She thinks he must have warned Finnick, too, because he doesn’t let himself get carried away, either. But it’s like something is tugging them to each other, pulling them close. 

Neither of them can deny it, and honestly, Annie’s not sure she wants to. 

“Nice song,” Finnick says as he walks into her house one day, about a month after the Victory Tour. Annie looks up from the piano keys and smiles. The way he brightens up a room is always welcome. 

“Thanks,” she replies. “What are we doing today?”

“Whatever you want.”

“You say that every day.”

Finnick sends her a cheeky smile. “It’s true every day.”

Annie rolls her eyes and stands up. “Actually, I was thinking that we could go to the beach.”

His eyes widen in surprise, and she knows why. She hasn’t gone to the beach since the arena flooded. Something about the waves crashing on the sand sent her spiralling into a wave of panic that she couldn’t pull herself out of. 

“Are you sure?” Finnick asks. “Because if you’re not ready—”

“I’m ready,” Annie interrupts. 

Finnick nods, then smiles at her. “Good. I’m proud of you. Should we invite Mags?”

Annie nods, because she doesn’t want Mags to miss this, either. The three of them head down to the private Victors beach. It’s empty because it’s winter, but it’s not too cold to dip your toes into the water. Annie doesn’t think she’s ready for a full swim yet, anyway. 

The first sight of the waves causes her breath to hitch. She has to remind herself that the water isn’t tinted red with blood, that the waves won’t pull her under like she has weights tied to her feet. 

They hold her hands, Finnick on one side and Mags on the other. Annie can’t deny the terror that washes over her as she steps in, but their presence next to her is grounding. Sweat gathers on the back of her neck and Annie forces herself to take deep breaths. 

“Doing okay?” Finnick asks her. 

“Yeah,” Annie says as some of the tension in her muscles melts. A small smile tugs up the corners of her mouth. “I’m doing fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed this one. Let me know what you think! <3


End file.
